


4-7-8

by possessedradios



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Consequentially: Abuse Mention, Gen, Gun Violence (mentioned), Hints at less than ideal childhoods, I swear I want them to be happy but I just keep writing about Missions Gone Wrong Idek, Kepler is Not a nice person, Manipulation, Okay fun times with tags let's see ..., Panic Attacks, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Uhhh yeah I think that's it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possessedradios/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: You'd think having a hole the size of a bullet in your leg would prevent something as silly as words from really hurting you, but then you fail at counting to eight, and, well.





	4-7-8

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon on tumblr who sent me the prompt "Please stop talking, I'm trying to get us out alive" for the SI-5.

Maxwell tries to regulate her breathing, 4-7-8, she knows this, she tries, she tries _so hard_ –

Kepler squats down in front of her and then his hands are on her leg and she’s violently ripped out of her mind and she doesn’t remember how numbers work and there’s nothing but the searing hot pain and too much of– everything; the room is filled with the sickening, heavy scent of sweat and blood and fired guns like metallic sulphur; the sounds– her rapid breathing, the noise of the alarm they – she – accidentally triggered, Jacobi, at the door, swearing, struggling with the pick and tension wrench; the emotions– she can’t even begin to place half of them, but she’s scared, that’s what sticks out to her most, she’s scared and she fucked up and her jeans cling to her leg and the fabric is all red and–

She swats Kepler’s hands away in a sudden, hurried frenzy. _Don’t,_ she wants to say, but the word refuses to come over her lips.

“Doctor Maxwell,” he says, very slowly, very patiently considering he is who he is, “I’ll have to take a look at your injury.”

“It’s– It’s fine,” she somehow manages through gritted teeth now. He glares at her.

“I’ll gladly tell you whether I agree in a second. Now let me take a look at it or I _will_ tie you to the chair.” He seems to take her silence as some sort of quiet consent, and the next thing she knows is that he’s cutting the leg of her jeans open with a knife. She’s too much of a mess to even just flinch at the sight.

4-7-8, she tries, again, but the numbers slip from her mind and it becomes a mess of 1-0-1, 1-0-1, 1-0-1-1-0-1-1-0- _shit_

She winces, bites down on her lower lip, hard, to stop whatever pained noise wanted to come out of her mouth.

Kepler looks up at her, stops prodding at her leg and wraps his hand around her wrist instead, fingers pressed against the inner side, and she looks through him, then dares to look at her leg. Blood, okay, fine, of course, and it doesn’t look that bad, actually, bullet went right through and she’s able to stand, had been standing for a full three or four minutes before Kepler pushed her down onto the chair, so it can’t be that bad and maybe, if she’s lucky, it went through muscle tissue, those wounds tend to be less complicated, if she remembers correctly, which she just as well might not, though–

“Doctor Maxwell.”

Kepler sounds more impatient now, more irritated, and she realizes he must have been talking at her. She didn’t hear.

“I– Sir?” Her voice is hoarse and doesn’t sound like her own.

“Your pulse is in acceptable range, but you’re shaking, and you’re hyperventilating. I need to know whether you’re going into shock. Do you feel hot, cold? Confused?”

“I– No, I’m– I’m okay, I’m– fine.” She tries to think of a way to tell him that everything _else_ is just too much, but she can’t; everything that comes to her mind would sound wrong and violate about a dozen rules the three of them follow in some kind of quiet understanding; _We’re all fucked up but we don’t talk about it_.

He seems to get it, though, because he looks at her for another few seconds, she’s caught in the eye contact and it feels way too intimate, and then he nods sharply and gets up again. “Good.” His voice shifts, ice cold steel now, and she realizes that’s him letting her know that he didn’t forget that she was the one who fucked up, and panic flares up in her chest and–

“Get up and ready to move, Maxwell.”

She notes the way he leaves the ‘Doctor’ out of the sentence and nods, slowly standing, steadying herself against the armrests of the chair.

“Sir, I want to say–”

“Can you both just shut up? Stop talking, really, I am– trying to get us out of here alive.” It’s the first time Jacobi has spoken since the sound of the last gunshot has faded, and his words are sharp and he sounds annoyed and something else.

“No need to snap at us like that,” Maxwell murmurs, and he turns around, glaring at her.

“Oh, yeah? Yeah? This lock is fucking difficult and, you know, we could have been out of here thirty fucking minutes ago, if _someone_ hadn’t triggered this stupid alarm that locked the door and won’t stop blaring now!”

Maxwell is taken aback by the accusing sound of the words, because this is Jacobi, and Jacobi doesn’t talk to her like that, Jacobi has her back, always, just like she has his. It only lasts for a single moment, though, and the next, her shock is replaced by anger, which she knows is a very crude and not entirely healthy coping mechanism, but she doesn’t care because it sooths the panic inside her chest and it makes breathing easier and it makes her forget the pain.

“Listen, this is not my fault, I panicked!”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Jacobi says, and his familiar, aggressive sarcasm seems to burn her skin like poison. “Yeah, Alana, that’s the fucking point! You panicked, and we don’t do that! We don’t panic, we deal with shit like this in a sensible way and we don’t get ourselves locked in! If you had acted like a goddamn professional–”

“Shut! Up!” She can’t escape this; it’s the same lecture she _knows_ Kepler will give her later, but somehow, this only makes it worse. “I’m not letting myself get lectured by _you_. You don’t have a college degree, you– You can’t even fire a gun right! I’ve never seen you land a decent hit! All you can do is build stupid bombs!”

She doesn’t think she registers her words until seconds pass and Jacobi’s still just staring at her, eyes wide and mouth half open. She feels a little like crying and wants to take everything back. At the same time, the anger’s still there, and the part of her that’s completely filled with it thinks ‘Good. He’s hurt. I hurt him. Good.’

“Hey.”

Jacobi swallows and slowly turns around, thrusting the pick into the lock far too harshly. “At least I can do my fucking job and don’t shut down whenever there’s more than one thing happening at once,” he spits without looking at her, and she opens her mouth to– do _something_ –

_“Hey!”_

Both flinch. Even the sound of the alarm seems less noisy somehow. Maxwell doesn’t look at Kepler, but she can feel his eyes on her and her whole body goes tense and she pulls her shoulders up. Jacobi does the same, but he doesn’t turn around to look, either.

“ _Enough._ Get it together, you incompetent _idiots_. Maxwell, before you throw things at Jacobi’s head that make me question why I am the one called heartless, get your breathing under control. And Jacobi, how about you do your job and get this door open before the security backup arrives here, if you please!”

They’re both quiet for a moment, and then they both nod, and they both follow his orders.

*

Maxwell tries her best to get her leg somewhat steady, but the backseat if too small for her to really fit her leg on it and the road is bumpy and the pain is back completely and leaves her hot and cold and exhausted, a low throbbing deep inside her flesh, spreading through her leg and entire body.

It’s dead silent inside the car and far too loud inside her head. Jacobi’s words play again and again, only interrupted by a replay of her own accusations, insults, this was– This was bad. She knows she’s, out of the three of them, the best at analyzing and reflecting and right now she hates it because it leaves her feeling empty and guilty, her head is a mess of pain and bad emotions just barely stronger than some kind of lingering numbness.

“Jacobi,” she says, putting together, in her head, _I’m sorry I snapped, I didn’t mean it, I was just_ so _overwhelmed and I couldn’t think and snapping at someone made it easier, and I couldn’t snap at Kepler, obviously, and you were so angry, and I don’t like that, I get scared when you’re angry, you have that kind of edge to the voice that my dad used to have, but I didn’t mean it, please believe me, I’m so, so sorry._

Nothing.

“Jacobi,” she tries again, and then again, “Jacobi,” and again, “Jacobi–”

“What?!”

She stares down at her leg, cut-open jeans loosely draped over naked skin. “Nothing,” she whispers.

*

It’s a few hours later and Maxwell feels dizzy. The blood loss, probably. Or the sleep deprivation. Or the fact she hasn’t eaten or drank anything in about twenty hours. Or the feeling of shame and guilt deep inside of her. Or the fact that Kepler looks very angry. Or the one that she overdosed on painkillers as soon as she stepped out of Goddard’s medical wing. Could be anything, really.

“Go home. And don’t. Show your face here. For the next two weeks. I’ll see you again on the 19th.”

Kepler’s words come through to her with a two-seconds-delay, and even then, she doesn’t think she really gets them through the haze that is her thoughts. This sounds as if he’s–

“You’re suspended.”

Jacobi stares, silently, with clenched fists, and Maxwell thinks he probably blames her for this.

“May– May I ask why?” Now _that’s_ definitely the meds. No way she’d ever dare ask that if she was able to think clearly.

“May … you ask … why? You may, Doctor Maxwell. I will … gladly … explain it to you,” Kepler says, and oh, this was a mistake.

“I have … never before … seen anyone handle a stressful situation as poorly as you two did today. Instead of working together, you spent precious time insulting _each other_. You!” Kepler turns to face her, and Maxwell flinches. “Panicked! You put the entire outcome of the mission at risk because you were unable to think clearly! And you …” A slight shift in his position and he’s addressing Jacobi – Jacobi doesn’t flinch, but he tenses immediately. “Had a job to do and chose to ignore it in favor of intruding yourself into Maxwell’s situation!”

Maxwell wishes she hadn’t asked, she just wants this day to end. She stares down at the floor, even when she can feel Kepler’s eyes on her again. His hand is at her chin in only a split second, gripping tightly, tilting her head up. “You’ll look at me.” She does. She does and digs her nails into the palm of her hands.

He lowers his voice until it’s an almost-soothing murmur. The tone would be kind if it was anyone else using it. This is worse than the shouting. “Your presence today … Doctor Maxwell … was almost _comically_ unhelpful. You were so utterly and completely _useless_ that I find myself almost–” He smiles. “–impressed.”

Maxwell immediately feels like she can’t breathe again.

4-7-8. She tries.

He drops his hand from her chin and turns away, a very clear signal; he’s done with her. Her eyes are burning and she blinks rapidly, tells herself that this is ridiculous, she will at least wait with crying until she’s home.

“Jacobi,” he says, now facing him. “ _Daniel_ ,” he says, and she thinks, God, that seems almost over the top; he’s really hauling out the big guns, “I thought you had the situation under control. I _trusted_ you to have it under control.”

“Sir–”

“And you, Daniel, have betrayed this trust. You have … disappointed me.”

Jacobi snaps his mouth shut immediately. Maxwell is pretty sure she can hear his teeth clicking together. He turns his head away, sets his jaw, stares into the distance, unblinking. Maxwell notices that he adjusts his breathing. 4-7-8. He tries.

“You both,” Kepler concludes, calmly, “have been a disgrace to the SI-5 today. I expect you to perform _better_ – in two weeks.”

And with that, he walks back into the building, leaves them behind, and not a moment too soon – a few tears run down Maxwell’s cheek and she lifts her hand, rubs at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie almost aggressively. She’s tired. She’s so tired, and for now, she’s really just glad Kepler didn’t stay long enough to see her cry.

Kepler, she’s aware every second of every day they interact, toys with their traumas and triggers like a surgeon handles his instruments, with precision, carefully, elegantly. He navigates the minefield that is both her and Jacobi’s childhood so expertly – he knows that this always works, he knows how effective it is, but she refuses – and she knows Jacobi has the same mindset – to actively show it in front of him.

“Alana?”

She startles at Jacobi’s voice, but then slowly, shyly, turns her head to look at him. “Hm?”

“Wanna go to my place and watch stupid cooking shows? Get ice cream first?”

“... And some more painkillers.”

He nods and walks over to her and– and takes her hand. She bites her lower lip and intertwines their fingers, squeezing Jacobi’s hand so hard it must hurt.

While they’re both walking towards the parking lot, side to side, she tries to piece together her little prepared speech and fails spectacularly. All she gets out is “I didn’t mean it, I was just–” and then she doesn’t know how to continue.

“I know. You’re not useless, Alana.”

“College degrees are stupid, you’re so smart–”

“I would have panicked too, I was angry because I would have panicked too, and–”

“I love your bombs, they are so cool!”

“... Thanks.”

She nods and squeezes his hand again, and this time, he squeezes back.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at tumblr @possessed-radios or on my podcast sideblog, @shortwaveattentionspan!


End file.
